CHAPTER 42: CHAPTER 42: THE MOON GODDESS FORGOT TO TAKE PITY ON ME

Selene’s POV

I had promised myself I wouldn’t cry.

I swore it right here in this same room when Kael had dragged me here with the collar locked around my neck and stripped the last pieces of my name and freedom. I had stared at the stone walls then, numb but proud, and told myself I wouldn’t give them anything more. Especially not my tears.

But now they wouldn’t stop.

My body convulsed with each sob, my chest tightening as if ropes had wrapped around it. The cold tile beneath me was soaked through, muffling the gasps I tried so hard to hide. I pressed my face deeper into them, biting hard on my arm just to keep myself from screaming. But even that small act of control was slipping away.

The pain wasn’t just in my throat or chest.

It was everywhere. In the raw sting across my hips. In the tremble of my legs. In the places his hands had gripped too hard. There were bruises already...rising like angry flowers across my skin.

I dragged a shaking breath in, my fingers curling into my gown like claws. My arms had gone numb from how long I’d held myself there, bent forward, trying to disappear into the ground.

How could he do this?

The same man who used to chase me through moonlit halls as a boy. The same boy who once gave me a polished pebble and swore it was from the stars. He had shattered that version of himself tonight...smashed it like glass and made me bleed with the pieces.

There was nothing gentle left in him.

His touch hadn’t sought closeness. It had hunted something else...something vicious and punishing. I could still feel it lingering: the pressure of his grip around my arms, the way his mouth moved against mine like a monster. There was no tenderness in his voice, only disgust and anger.

"This is where you belong, Selene... crawling and crying on the floor, right where you belong... under my boots."

The words cracked through my skull again, louder than the sobs. Louder than my own breathing. And God help me—I believed them in that moment. I had believed I was nothing. Because I couldn’t fight him when my innocence was at stake.

My body folded in tighter as I pulled my legs to my chest, each movement slow and aching. My gown was twisted around my thighs, torn along one side, the delicate fabric stained and wrinkled. It didn’t cover much anymore. It didn’t matter now when I had already lost so much.

The bruises on my thighs matched the shape of his fingers. I traced one absently with a trembling hand. My skin felt too raw as a hiss left my lips. I wasn’t just ashamed. I felt contaminated.

Not in the simple way that dirt and sweat could fix. But in the soul-rotting way that made you want to scrape yourself raw and still not feel clean.

And the worst part?

It was because of him.

In that horrible, frozen way when your mind goes quiet and your body stops listening. When fear wins.

I clenched my fists so tightly my nails broke skin. I needed that pain. I needed to feel something I had chosen.

And then, slowly, my rationality began to return. I became painfully aware of the condition I was sprawled in on the floor. My limbs were twisted awkwardly, my face pressed against cold stone.

Not because I had suddenly found strength. No, I didn’t feel strong at all. But some part of me understood that if I stayed down any longer, I might never get back up.

So I forced my hand to move first, pressing my palm against the floor. The cold tile bit into my skin. My other arm followed, trembling under the weight of my body and everything else I carried.

Slowly, I pulled my knees under me. It felt like lifting a mountain. My body ached, my ribs protested, and my legs shook with the effort.

Still, I pressed my bare feet to the floor. The coldness shot through me like a jolt of reality. And then, I pushed myself up, not gracefully.

But still I stood.

One step.

Then another.

The short walk to the bathroom felt like crossing a battlefield. Each step made my joints ache. I passed the tall mirror near the door and turned my face away from it. I didn’t want to see what I looked like.

I pushed the bathroom door open with my shoulder. It creaked softly. The air inside was still, heavy with the scent of them. But I ignored it all and stepped in.

I didn’t pause for a second before I reached for the ties of the ruined gown and yanked them loose. The fabric dropped from my shoulders like a discarded cloth, pooling at my feet in silence. I stepped out of it.

Then I turned on the water.

I twisted the cold knob hard, and a sharp stream burst out. It hit me like a slap—icy, unrelenting. My breath hitched. My skin flinched. But I stepped under it anyway.

The cold grounded me.

I grabbed the soap bar and dragged it across my skin with brutal force. Over and over. Arms, chest, stomach, neck. Everywhere he had touched. I scrubbed until my skin burned red, until it hurt more than the bruises. The water pooled at my feet, cloudy and slick, as if it could wash away what had happened.

But it couldn’t.

Still, I kept scrubbing. I didn’t cry anymore. There was nothing left to cry out—just a ringing silence in my ears and the pounding rhythm of my heart.

But it seemed the goddess had forgotten to take pity on me. As if I couldn’t even be allowed a moment of peace before trouble came knocking.

BANG.

The door slammed open behind me. The sound snapped through the silence, and I froze with my hands still scrubbing. My shoulders jumped, and I quickly raised my arms to cover my chest as I turned toward the noise.